


Channelling Eleanor Rigby - Part Two

by redvalerian



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Angst, Erotica, Fantasy, M/M, happy ending eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-13
Updated: 2012-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-31 02:51:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/339059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redvalerian/pseuds/redvalerian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>All the lonely people, where do they come from? And what do they do when they're alone.</i> James Hathaway is having dreams about a certain Detective Inspector that he thinks is beyond his reach. He thinks wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Channelling Eleanor Rigby - Part Two

Title - Channelling Eleanor Rigby  
Author - redvalerian  
E-Mail address - redvalerian@gmail.com  
Rating - NC17  
Category – Hathaway/Lewis  
Tags – Hathaway, Lewis, slash, erotica, fantasy, angst, happy ending eventually, 

_All the lonely people. Where do they all come from. And what do they do when they’re alone?_ (This is a re-working of a story I wrote over a decade ago for another fandom altogether. A few changes in gender pronoun were necessary.)

 

Channelling Eleanor Rigby Part Two

Hathaway lay stretched out on the Ikea recliner in his otherwise spartan flat. He looked like a specimen being readied for dissection. The flat was furnished with one of everything. One chair. One side table. One lamp. One shelf unit. That was about it. Everything was in pine or birch or black hessian - the whole set against antiseptically white walls. Antiseptically *bare* white walls. The room was about as appealing as a morgue in winter. Or a monk’s cell.

The Detective Sergeant himself was also a study in matte black and pristine white. His long legs extended to the very end of the recliner's footrest. They were encased in black jeans, but the feet were bare. A spotless white T-shirt was his only other item of clothing. It gleamed in the dim light of the room, stretched over his slender torso, leaving his arms exposed to the chilly atmosphere. The fit was so tight that his ribcage was clearly visible - like an illustration in an anatomy textbook.

One arm was crooked up behind his head, the hand cradling his scalp. The 'deck-chair posture' and casual clothing seemed incongruous in this inhospitable environment. In Hathaway's other hand he held a television remote control unit which he was jabbing in the direction of the flat screen TV. The images on the screen flashed by in a blur, casting light and shadow onto his face.

He clicked from one station to another impatiently - not really registering what was on one channel before he moved onto the next one. A discordant symphony of noise filled the room as he clicked around the dial. CLICK. And the BBC news anchor warned of severe delays on the M1. CLICK. CLICK. And, Alfie was calling last orders in the Queen Vic….CLICK….CLICK….CLICK….and there was Davina applauding this week’s Biggest Loser…..CLICK....CLICK....CLICK...CLICK….Clickclickclickclickkkk.... The faces and voices flew by so quickly that they became a blur of colour, backed with white noise, until he came back to the Biggest Loser again. He smiled grimly. That was him all right. A loser, at every level.

Angrily, he clicked the television off and threw the remote down on the floor. He was a failure as a priest. A failure as a detective. A failure as a friend. The sudden silence was unnerving. It left a ringing in his ears and made the room seem 10 degrees colder. He involuntarily shivered as his exposed skin grew a sea of goosebumps. 

There was a frown on Hathaway's face when finally and inevitably he turned and looked at the side table next to his chair. He'd been avoiding it for the last hour, but no longer. The spirit might be willing, said his grim expression, but the flesh is weak. Too fucking weak.

On the table was one empty glass and one unopened bottle of whisky. Next to them was a tube of lubricant still in its outer box. Also unopened. He stared at all three for a few minutes. Then he slowly reached out for the box containing the tube of lubricant. He opened it and took out the information leaflet he found inside. He began to read it carefully.

He knew that it was a delaying tactic, but that didn't stop him reading it word for word.

COMPARE THESE FEATURES WITH THOSE OF OTHER LUBRICANTS:  
\- Superior, long-lasting lubricating qualities.  
\- Does not dry out to leave a solid residue.  
\- Greaseless - Natural feeling.  
\- Safe for all sensitive areas of the body  
\- Non-systemic.  
\- Non-staining, clear, unscented  
\- A new concept in personal lubrication.  
\- Excellent lubricity  
\- Smooth, natural texture  
\- Ideal for all intimate activities.  
\- Eases insertion. 

Hathaway finished reading. There was now another truly grim smile on his face as he picked out the key phrases from the leaflet. "Personal lubrication", "sensitive areas of the body", "intimate activities,” “eases insertion.” 

Yes. All that was well and good. But was it ideal for jerking yourself off with? Would it make a clenched fist feel like someone’s welcoming body? Like a specific welcoming body? Like Lewis's? That was the question.

There was only one way to find out. He unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans, reaching in and exposing his burgeoning erection to the chill air. If anything it shrivelled slightly, as if it didn't like the cold room and wanted to run back into the warm. Hathaway ignored the shrinking flesh but once again that look that was more grimace than smile appeared on his face. He turned his eyes away and opened the tube of lubricant, squeezing a small amount of the colourless, odourless gel onto his right hand. It felt as devoid of warmth as did everything else in the room. The little pool of gel was as cold as his empty life was at the present. As meaningless as Will McEwan’s death had been in that frigid church. But the lack of any alternative meant that it would have to do. 

In the few seconds he'd been brooding, the gel in his hands had already begun to warm up. Hathaway closed his eyes and let his imagination go to work. What would he like to do with Detective Inspector Robert Lewis, that was the question? How could he ever show the love he felt for the man who had saved his life. Who had run into a burning building and rescued him. Just thinking of Lewis made his erection grow and begin to throb. He disgusted himself. Almost against his will he slowly reached his hand down towards his now demanding erection. 

The lubricant would make his palm a slick haven; a place where he could bury his unacceptable desire for a few minutes at least. He was nearly touching himself now. He pictured Lewis’s face, looking down at him as he lay recovering in that hospital bed. Looking at him with something more than friendship and concern. Looking at him with something very close to love. Suddenly he froze. His hand hovered over his straining flesh for a breathless instant, and then he clenched his fist and slammed it down on his rigid thigh instead. The feel of the warm lubricant on his fingers and palm was suddenly unpleasant. Distasteful somehow. 

His eyes shot open and he looked down at his fading erection and his clenched fist as if both belonged to someone else. Some other Detective Sergeant of the Oxfordshire Constabulary who was obsessively in love with a superior officer who cared nothing for him. Not in that way. His face registered something approaching despair. 

And then there was a knock on the door. And he knew. He just knew that it was Lewis, coming to see how he was.

[Channeling Eleanor Rigby Part three](http://archiveofourown.org/works/339376)


End file.
